


Ten Minutes

by nofaves



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Pittsburgh Penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-15
Updated: 2008-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nofaves/pseuds/nofaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ten-minute slice from the game on January 18, 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> beta’d by the heroic [](http://eggybread.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://eggybread.livejournal.com/)**eggybread**. _Merci, mon amie !_

Five minutes.

It had been five minutes since my captain limped off the ice and had to be carried to the dressing room, the doors closing behind him, shutting me out. My hands are cold and sweaty in my gloves and I’m breathing hard, but it has nothing to do with the shift I just took. He’s hurt and alone and I’m here.

I told myself that if I had just been in position, it would have been me streaking up the right wing, drawing Ranger closer to me as I set Sid up for the back-door play. It would have been me in that corner, not him. And if it had been me, I wouldn’t have been following the puck, computing its movement in my head, rolling toward it – and then slamming into the unseen boards feet-first. No, self-preservation is the name of my game. Hit ‘em before they see you, let alone hit you. Curl up in a ball when you fall.

But not him. That’s why he is who he is, and I’m who I am: the sidekick. The ‘best friend’. The guy ‘twenty-eight other GMs would deal for in a heartbeat’ but who doesn’t show up on the score sheet unless HIS name is on the same line.

I forced my brain into game-mode to block out the thoughts of Sid hobbling down the runway, Sid being held by Sabou, Sid’s stick dragging behind… No. Can’t start thinking that way, or I’m useless out here. So I cheered on the guys, even though I wasn’t cheerful, and I took my next shift on the four-on-four, even though I wished I could be back there…

And when Hallsie came through the runway door and back onto the ice a few minutes later, it took everything in me not to bolt over to him and beg him for details. It was an epic battle of wills, but the professional side of me won, sort of. I shot my own rebound past Holmqvist, even though the whistle had clearly blown. It was eerie – I kept waiting for a shove from behind, or the ref to yell at me, or even a goalie stick across the shins. But there was nothing. I broke a major unwritten rule and they let me just skate away.

I made lazy circles in the ice while they set up for the faceoff. My heart just wasn’t in this, and I knew it, and it scared me. I honestly kept expecting to hear Mike call me back to the bench. When St. Louis took his shot and Ty made the save, I heard the call I’d been listening for. I sprinted back to the bench and headed for Adam – just in time to hear his line called out. I hopped over the boards next to him, but all he said was, “Looks like you lost an edge,” before the whistle blew and he was gone.

I looked down at my skate. What the hell was he talking about? I didn’t lose my edge; my blade was fine. Then Dopey-Colby, Head-Too-Far-In-The-Game-Colby took a break from reality and realized what Adam was saying. But before I could call Coach Yeo to get Heinze’s attention, I glanced over at the runway. Heinze was already standing there, as if waiting for someone. Me? It just felt all set-up, which is why I guess I didn’t trust it. But if it got me back there with Sid…

“Army! What’s wrong with your skate?” Yeosie yelled from the other side of the bench, signaling for Dana to come out at the next whistle.

Something made me look up at Mike over my left shoulder, figuring he knew better than to believe all this crap. But all he said was, “Hurry it up, we’re not waiting the game for you!”

So at the next break, I headed for the room. Yeah, I played it up, half-dragging my “damaged” skate blade across the ice and over to the runway. Again, it was weird – no ribbing from the guys on the bench, like you’d normally hear when a guy has an equipment problem. Was everybody in on this?

I don’t think I heard a word anyone said to me as I made my way to the medical room, all pretense of an equipment problem gone. The security guard outside opened the door for me and I slipped inside the eerily silent room.

All the lights were off except the one above the treatment table, where Sid was lying facedown, his hands clutching his head. His right leg was bared to the knee and Chris Stewart, our trainer, had one of his hands on the calf muscle. Stewie glanced at me before saying, “Whenever you’re ready, Sid.”

“Do it.”

Stewie squeezed hard on Sid’s calf muscle, once, twice – each time watching his foot flex upward. He grinned and patted Sid gently on the shoulder. “No Achilles damage, kid,” he said before heading for the door. “I’ll be back.”

I admit I got worried when Sid never moved. I expected him to pick up his head and say something captain-like. But he never said a word or reacted to Stewie’s comment, nor did he move his hands still scrunched through his hair. I myself was at a loss for words – somewhat unusual for me. Although even if he’d been in a talkative mood, I had no idea what to say. No words were going to fix this.

I dropped my equipment off on the padded table next to the door before getting closer to him. I felt like I was stepping into a funeral home – the way you speak more quietly and walk almost on tiptoe? I guess I didn’t want to disturb him, or something. Finally, I heard him mumble something but I couldn’t hear it clearly, so I followed my instinct and rubbed his back, wishing I had the guts to stroke his hair. He needed something from me, but what? I broke the silence. “It’ll be OK, buddy—”

“Colby?” he interrupted.

“Yeah, Sid?”

“Lock that door.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I flipped the deadbolt and scooted back over to the table, watching as he turned over and sat up, all in one fluid motion.

“Colby, I need a favor,” he whispered so low I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.

“Anything, buddy.”

“Come over here.”

I stepped closer to the table, so close that his head was only a few inches from my chest. This time guts didn’t enter into it. I couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d wanted to, and I didn’t want to. I reached out to pat his sweat-slicked hair – even wet it was like silk. He leaned into me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I was in heaven – until he let out an unholy roar. His shoulders began to heave and he buried his face on my sweater. My body muffled his terrible heart-wrenching screams.

A couple of minutes of that and he went limp in my arms, his energy completely spent. I lifted up his tear-streaked face, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye.

“Sid.”

He took a few deep breaths before saying, “I’m sorry. It’s just something I do. I don’t know—”

“Do you feel better?” I interrupted.

An odd grin twitched his lips. “I always do. I’ve done this since I was a kid. When things build up and I just can’t take it any more… I go someplace alone and… well…”

“But this time, you had me. I’m honored.”

Something in my tone must have struck him wrong because he let go of me and wiped his face. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.”

“I’m OK.”

“I know.”

“I…” He opened his mouth to say something else, but no words came. Not like they were necessary.

“Sidney.” His eyes flew up to meet mine at the sound of his name. I plastered the biggest smile on my face, since he seemed to think that I was weirded out. “You’re my friend. Any time I can help, you can count on me.”

I glanced up at the clock on the wall I’d been facing.

Damn. I’d been in here almost ten minutes. If Mike didn’t suspend me for this, I’d be benched for sure.

Sid read my mind. “Get back out there.” He paused and then said, “We’ll talk later, OK?”

I took two steps to the door and stopped.

“What’s wrong, Colbs?”

I turned once more to face him, the one whose eyes could see into my soul. “We don’t need to talk later – we don’t need to talk at all,” I said in those two strides I took before taking his face in my hands and capturing his lips with mine.

Ten years seemed to go by before we let go. All thought of pain, suspensions, doctors, eating, sleeping, breathing – all of it lost in that moment, until we heard the doorknob turn and the door bang against the lock. Stewie was back.

“Go,” he whispered.

“Gone,” I responded, grabbing my helmet, gloves and stick on my way out. I turned back toward him as I popped the deadbolt.

_“I’d stay, you know."_

_“Yeah, buddy, I know.”_

_“Even if it meant a whole season on Mike’s Shit List.”_

_“Not worth that.”_

_“ You’re worth that.”_

We heard the words as clearly as if we’d actually said them, in the single glance interrupted only by the trainer walking between us.

“Get back out there, kid,” Stewie said to me. “I’ll take good care of him. You can talk later.”

No need. We’d already said it all.


End file.
